


FKAU

by Calicy



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: Aggressively denying canon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 21:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7377682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calicy/pseuds/Calicy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Byamba and Marco are recent college graduates whose girlfriends give them life changing news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FKAU

“Is that my cereal?”

Marco shakes his head, looking up at Khutulun. She is wearing only a large, white t-shirt, no doubt stolen from Byamba, and Marco takes in the sight of her long bare legs. Why doesn’t she have clothes here, he wonders? Kokachin has an entire drawer in his dresser. It’s not like Khutulun and Byamba aren’t serious. Yet Khutulun keeps her cereal here and not a scrap of clothing -

“Marco!” Khutulun says for the second time.

“I may have,” he finally admits. It was not his fault. He only had a thirty six pack of energy drink, a nearly empty bag of Cheetos, and an ancient stick of butter in his part of the kitchen. Khutulun’s eyes flare and he quickly says, “I will get you more.”

“I will make sure he does,” Byamba adds, emerging from his room to enter the kitchen, wearing only boxers. He opens the cabinet he had claimed for himself back when they had first moved in, looking at his various boxes of food, “Do you want something else? Oatmeal? I think I might be able to make waffles.”

“I’ve been wanting that cereal since last night. It was all I could think about.” Khutulun groans and throws herself into a chair next to Marco. “Whatever. I probably wouldn’t be able to keep anything down anyway.”

“Is your stomach still bothering you?” Byamba asks, “I will look and see if we have any more antacids.”

“Are you ill?” Marco asks, “How strange. Kokachin has not been feeling well either. She went to the doctor’s office this morning.”

“Perhaps we have the same sickness,” Khutulun says, watching him out of the side of her eye, “You know we like to mess around when you and Byamba aren’t here.”

“You do not!” Marco said, much too loudly. He knew Khutulun and Kokachin could barely tolerate each other and yet . . . He couldn’t be certain . . . “Do you also feel nauseous? Tired? Can you smell everything? Peeing a lot?” Marco pauses, uncertain how to speak, “Any sudden changes in your mood?”

“I could have you killed for that Polo,” Khutulun says, resting her head in her arms.

Across the kitchen, Byamba dropped a container of flour. A thin layer of white powder fell across the counter but he doesn't seem to notice. “I think we need to go to the drug store. Come Khutulun.”

“Why?” Khutulun asks, lifting her head off the table. She glance down at the floor as if contemplating something. She inhaled swiftly and looks up, “No.”

“You know that it’s possible,” Byamba says, rushing to his room with Khutulun on his heels.

“What are you talking about?” Marco asks. He mentally reviews their conversation and gasps, “You think the girls have mono?”

Khutulun emerges fully dressed, just in time to hear his comment. She rolls her eyes, “Call your girlfriend Marco.”

“But she’s at the doctor,” Marco says, “They can give antibiotics to people with mono, yes?”

“You don’t give antibiotics to people with a virus,” Byamba says, pulling on his coat and grabbing his car keys. He goes to wrap an arm around Khutulun, who is standing by the door, gnawing on her fingernails, “Look at me. We’ll go to the store and figure this all out. One thing at a time.”

“They sell tests to see if you have mono?” Marco asks.

“Let’s go,” Khutulun says, taking Byamba’s hand.

“Bring back a test for Kokachin. And cereal! I’ll pay you back later!” Marco calls after them.

.  
.  
.

Byamba is in the living room. At his feet are piles of bright purple wrapping paper, from his failed attempts at making a presentable gift. By the time, Marco has arrived home from his late night shift, he is attempt to bind the present in tape and ribbon.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” Marco asks. He tosses his jacket, which is smelly from the kitchen of the Italian restaurant where he works, and sits down on the couch.

Byamba shrugs, “It is for Khutulun.”

Marco glances at the object his roommate is attempting to wrap. A photography books, slippers, and a bottle of massage oil. His friend was never one for showy gifts. For Christmas the year prior, Byamba had given Marco school supplies, knowing his friend lost all pens without fail and constantly was in need of a paperclip.

“A late congratulation gift?” Marco asks, “For her new internship?”

“No,” Byamba says, looking at Marco out of the corner of his eye.

“Then what?” Marco asks, “Are you just romantic? Do you lavish your woman with gifts just because she graces your life?”

“Of course,” says Byamba. They both chuckle. Byamba adds, his tone careful, “Actually . . .”

“Tell me,” Marco says, “Something is on your mind.”

“You must not tell anyone yet but,” Byamba says, “We have decided to keep the baby.”

Marco pauses. This had been a sensitive topic in their house for many weeks. No doubt it would become more so because he and Kokachin had not reached a conclusion on their own situation, “I see.”

“We are fools,” Byamba says, shaking his head, barely able to hold back a smile, “There is so much we wish to do and yet. . . You know?”

“I do,” Marco says, “You want this child.”

“Yes,” Byamba says. He opens his mouth and then promptly closes it. He picks up his gifts and begins to head towards his room, adding, “I will find a gift bag.”

“Probably for the best,” Marco says. Byamba pats him on the shoulder and disappears into his room.

Marco sits down on the couch, listening to the murmur of Byamba talking on the phone in the next room. It must be Khutulun. Byamba’s voice has a certain catch in it when he is talking to his girlfriend.

Marco hasn’t spoken to Kokachin in several days. He knew what he wanted to do if she decided to keep their baby. He wanted to find them a home and get himself a good job so that their child and Kokachin could have a stable home. She deserved nothing less.

Then she had told him about her appointment at the clinic, the one she had scheduled for that morning. He did not know what to do in the face of this option. He supported Kokachin, as he had promised her he would, but where did they go from here?

If he were being entirely honest with himself, all he wanted at this point was for Kokachin to be with him. He knew they had only been dating a few months but he loved her. They could move past this, he thinks, and he wants to.

The door slams and he feels a wave of relief wash over him. He had invited her over after she finished work but he hadn’t thought she would actually come. His heart flips, as it always has, when he sees her in the doorway. She leans against the frame, exhausted from a long day at the office, and smiles at the sight of him.

He moves, tripping over the coffee table in his excitement, to hold her and kiss the lovely girl he had missed so much. She laughs when he nudges the sensitive spot under her ear with his nose and he forgets all of his troubles.

“What happened here?” she asks, gesturing towards the pile of wrapping paper Byamba had left on the floor.

“Byamba bought Khutulun a present,” Marco says, pulling her over to the kitchen. This is their habit. They have tea and something sweet and complain about their days. He had several customers that he is certain she will enjoy hearing about. In truth, the thought of her laugh often kept him going through the long shifts.

“What was the occasion?” Kokachin asks.

Marco shrugs, not wanting to talk about this now. Kokachin stops, kneeling to pick up a receipt which is nestled in the mountain of wasted paper. She studies it, her eyes looking mirthful as she reads what Byamba bought.

“Massage oil. No doubt we will be hearing how much Khutulun enjoys that. Slippers. Byamba is so thoughtful,” Kokachin says, her voice silly. She doesn’t mind Byamba or Khutulun very much for that matter. She can’t resist teasing them however. Marco doesn’t blame her. They can be over the top, especially in their affection for one another.

Kokachin sees the last item on the receipt and suddenly becomes silent. Knowing Marco is watching her, she says, “A memory book. Cute.”

“They have decided to keep the baby,” Marco tells her. He curses himself. Of course she knew that. Why must he always state the obvious?

Clutching her stomach, Kokachin moves to sit down at the kitchen table. Marco takes the chair next to her, reaching out to touch her hand when she has been too quiet for too long.

“Are you alright?” Marco asks, “I know that you did not want me there but - ” He stops himself. “Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”

“No,” Kokachin says, abrupt, “There is something I must tell you. I should have told you sooner but I wanted to see your face.”

“What is it?” Marco asks, inching closer to her.

“I cancelled the appointment,” Kokachin says.

Marco is speechless. Why would she do this? Has she changed her mind. . . ?

“Byamba ruined my moment. He had my same news just before I did,” Kokachin says, chuckling. She looks at him, uneasy, “How do you feel?”

“You did . . .” Marco mumbles, like an idiot. Say something, he yells to himself, say something.

Kokachin sees his silence and begins to stutter, her words tumbling from her mouth, “I understand that this is going to be a struggle for us but I - ”

Marco throws his arms around her, lifting her from her seat in his enthusiasm. He still cannot speak but he can laugh and he does, so forcefully, tears begins to roll down his cheeks. He hears Kokachin giggling too and there is no sweeter sound in the world.

“You and I,” Marco says, “I think we will be very good at this.”

“You wish to have a family with me?” Kokachin asks.

“I do,” Marco says, kissing her again and again. “I absolutely do.”

Byamba pokes his head out of his door at the sound of their joy. He raises a brow.

“We are going to raise our children together, my friend,” Marco says.

Byamba makes a face and then says into the phone in his hand. “Did you hear that, Khutulun?” He laughs at her response and tells Marco and Kokachin, “She says this is a terrible idea and she is on her way over to celebrate with us.”

.  
.  
.

“Will you please,” Marco says, his voice beginning to border on whining, “let me carry that for you?”

“What? This bed in a bag?” Kokachin asks, “I’ve got it. It is not heavy.”

“Let me take it,” Marco says. He shuffles the items in his arms - a lamp, three pillows, and a box of books - and frees a hand. Unwilling to argue, Kokachin hands him the bag. Marco nods and continues up the stairs. Four steps later, the lamp slips and in his attempt to catch it, Marco drops the box, sending several books flying down the flight.

“I will pick that up,” Marco mutter, leaving the items still in his arm on the landing and rushing to pick up the books.

“I appreciate the attempt,” Kokachin says, biting her lip to prevent herself from smiling too much.

Marco doesn’t meet her eyes as he passes her but she still leans to kiss his cheek. Blushing, he grabs their things, leaving the lamp and the bed in a bag on the landing.

“What fell?” Byamba asks as they pass the room he and Khutulun had claimed for themselves.

“Nothing,” Marco says briskly. He pauses to shift the items in his arms.

Khutulun who is sprawled across the bed, listening from within the room, rolls her eyes. She pushes herself off the mattress and passes Byamba, “We would help but we are going to the gym.” She bumps Marco playfully with her shoulder, grinning when he scrambles to catch the box of books again, before her eyes fall upon her newest roommate, “Kokachin.”

“Khutulun,” Kokachin replies, her tone even.

Byamba gives Kokachin a sympathetic glance as he rushes after his girlfriend.

“Come,” Marco says, “You can glare daggers at her another time.”

“I can’t believe I live with her now,” Kokachin mutters under her breath. It was for the best really. They lived by the grace of Kublai Khan, more so than ever. Not only had he given Marco a job so that he could remain in the city with Kokachin, he now was allowing his son - and them by extension - to rent one of his properties for an extremely affordable price. They had a backyard here and space for a nursery too.

“Khutulun is a good person,” Marco says, “Do you think Byamba would love her if she weren’t?”

“Sometimes I question his judgement,” Kokachin says, opening the door to their room. In spite of having seen it before, she smiles at the sight of their new space. Handsome dark wooden floor, calm grey walls, and a nook by the window where she has plans to put a crib. There is a large bay window which looks out onto the wide field behind their house. Kokachin goes to the window and looks out to see the poplar tree, just by the stone wall behind the shed. It sways gently in the breeze and the sight is most calming to Kokachin.

This is their home, she thinks, her heart happily dancing in her chest.

Behind her, Marco clears his throat loudly.

Kokachin turns, finding to her surprise that her boyfriend looks almost despondent. He pushes his hands into the pockets of his jacket and looks to the ground as he says, “I don’t want to talk about Khutulun anymore. There is something which has been bothering me for a very long time.”

“I don’t think it will surprise you when I say that we have had many problems in this relationships,” Marco begins, “Indeed, I think some would say it was build on weak foundation and is doomed.”

Kokachin bites the inside of her cheek. In the beginning, they had been quite a scandal indeed. She had been the fiancee of Jingim Khan, Byamba’s brother. He had been the foreign exchange student, spending the summer interning for Kublai Khan, the wealthiest man in the country. On the surface, it seemed clandestine.

She knew better though and so did Marco. She had been dating Jingim for years. She adored the boy but she did not have feelings for him. Marco was her opposite in so many ways. Yet she found, after spending time with him, that they matched well in matters of the greater importance. It was strange, yes, even to her but she loved Marco, her foolish, adoring Marco.

“You and I know better though,” Kokachin says, “do we not?”

She is correct, of course. In the end it had been fine. Jingim did not want to marry her either. He had released her from the engagement and left to establish an office in New York. The last she had heard, he was dating his CMO, Sorga. Kokachin was pleased. She had always thought there was something between Jinghim and Sorga that could not be explored due to their opposing commitments.

“I would says so,” Marco says, “However, recently I have noticed that there are many flaws in our commitment to one another, issues with our relationships which I cannot ignore anymore.”

He bites down in his lips, still unable to look at her. If she did not know better, she would think he is about to burst into tears. “Are you alright?”

Marco shakes his head, “What I am about to say, I do not say lightly.”

“Just tell me,” Kokachin says, sitting down on the bed. He pulls his hands from his pockets and makes fists as he does when he is uncomfortable. The sight makes her throat tight.

“I do not want to continue our relationship,” Marco says.

Kokachin can barely breath upon hearing this. How can this be? Does he truly wish to leave her? What will she do? She has no family. She can barely support herself. How will she raise a child on her own? Marco comes to kneels next to her, taking her hands in his. She can barely keep her composure at this. Her eyes fill with tears.

“I think you know what I speak of,” he continues.

“Stop,” she blurts out, her chin quivering again her will.

“I cannot,” he whispers, “I do not think we can continue as we are. There is only one way to fix this as I see it,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a ring box which he opens to show her, “Will you marry me?”

Kokachin bursts out crying, covering her mouth to keep herself from screaming. It takes her several minutes to comprehend what has just happened. He is such a -

Marco looks up surprised, “Are you not pleased?”

She slaps him, grinding her teeth, “Is that a proposal?”

“I . . I thought - ” Marco stutters.

“I thought you were breaking up with me!” Kokachin says.

“You what?”

“Yes,” Kokachin says, sobbing in earnest, “Is that the story you want to tell our child?”

“I’m sorry. I will do better,” Marco says, “I can - ”

She cuts him off with a kiss.

He looks very confused when she pulls away. Reaching up to brush away her tears, he asks, “Do you want me to try again?”

“Why do I love you?” Kokachin says. Chuckling around her tears, she rubs her forehead, “There is no need for another attempt. Yes. Yes, I will marry you.”

Marco sighs, no doubt relieved she accepted his disastrous effort. He slips the ring onto her hands. It is too large for her, the stone is discolored, and he worries the metal is fake. He tells her, “I will get you better when I can.”

“I love it,” Kokachin assures him. He leans in to kiss her again and she stops him, “We must make up another story though.”

“Alright,” Marco says.

There is something in the back of her mind, bothering her in that moment. She knows exactly what it is and how pressing it is to the matter at hand. For now, however, she lets him kiss her again. He touches her belly, where she is beginning to show, and she surrenders her thoughts to the moment and nothing else.

.  
.  
.

“How goes the Song deal? Does Jia Sidao still attempt to block your attempts at the merging companies?” Kaidu asks. He drinks from his cold glass of red wine. Byamba does not accept Khutulun’s father’s calm disposition. One would have to be living under a rock to not know the deal is going poorly.

Byamba’s father chuckles, “I will bend Sidao to my will. It is only a matter of time.”

“I am certain you will. Grandfather thought the best of you,” Kaidu replies, “We do the best with what we have, yes?”

“Yes,” Kublai replies, grinning in such a way that Byamba cannot help but shudder. Kublai motions for another vodka tonic. “Your idiot son, Chabar? How goes his bankruptcy?”

Byamba’s mother, Neha clears her throat loudly, “Let’s talk about something else, shall we? It’s so rare that we get to see the children. I want to enjoy their company. Byamba, how is your work?”

Byamba swallows the bit of bread he was eating quickly and says, “Fine.”

Neha nods until she realizes this is all he wants to say, “Anything else going on?”

Khutulun touches Byamba’s knee under the table, “Yes, that’s why we asked you to come and meet us - ”

“I do wish you would come back to working for me,” Kaidu says, “You were on your way to overseeing all of our finance department. In less than 10 years, I could have many you my CEO. Why did you - ”

“I didn’t want to look like I had only gained my position because I was your daughter. Everyone knows I’m your favorite child. People know Uncle Kublai. He doesn’t give favors to those who are undeserving.”

“You are known for your charity,” Kublai adds, “Eight ex-wives. No pre-nuptial agreements,” Kublai nudges his son’s arm, despite Byamba’s gaze being firmly on the plate in front of him, “Either he loves being married and will pay any price for the privilege or he’s a complete assho- ”

“My apologies,” Kaidu says, leaning towards his daughter, “My cousin thinks anyone who has even a morsel of respect for the opposite sex is pretentious. I suppose if I completely disregarded all of my lovers like he did, I would be deemed more acceptable.”

“We are not here to talk about the past, please - ” Byamba tries. He sees Khutulun move forward and grabs her hand. He know how she wants to do this. She think if they make their announcement abruptly, their fathers’ may be too shocked to settle into their usual silly arguments.

This is special to him though. He know that if he can only calm them down, they will listen and be happy for them, as he wants them to be.

“I recognize all my children,” Kublai says, grinding his teeth, “That’s how I know that you used my son to - ”

“You lie,” Kaidu seethed, “You lied then and you lie now. Do you not think that I would know better than to - ”

Khutulun looks at Byamba, her eyes vaguely apologetic but intent to one purpose. He knows the look very well. Byamba opens his mouth to speak but it is too late.  
“I’m preg - ,” Khutulun says.

“You spew such shit from your mouth that I can barely tell if I am talking to your ass or not,” Kublai roars, spit flying from his lips. The entire restaurant looks at them.

They are asked, in the kindest of terms, to please vacate the premise after that. It is a record, even for them. Usually, they at least get to their main course before Kublai and Kaidu lose control.

“I’m sorry,” Neha whispers into Byamba’s ear as they are escorted to the exit. She touches the back of his neck, her thumb tenderly stroking his hair.

“It’s not your fault.” Byamba says. It’s the truth. She is almost never the source of such dramatics.

“You had news?” Neha says.

Byamba glances at his father and Kaidu, who are arguing with the valet over whose car should be brought first. He sighs, reaching into his pocket to pull out the pictures he had brought for them. He puts them into his mother’s hand and walks to stand next to Khutulun, who is watching their fathers, looking slightly amused.

Neha looks at the pictures, confused for a moment. Then she begins to smile and then she is chuckling, tears slipping down her cheeks. She covers her mouth with her hand, looking to Byamba with bright eyes.

“You going to have a baby?” Neha says loudly enough that Kublai and Kaidu finally stop bickering, “My son, is this true? You’re going to have a family?”

“Yes,” Khutulun says, wrapping her arms around Byamba, “Twins.”

“What?” Kaidu snaps. He yanks the ultrasound picture out of Neha’s hand. His gaze falls upon Byamba, his look so full of rage that Byamba moves away from Khutulun.

“You’re an idiot boy. The worst nineteen years of my life," Kublai says, shaking his head at Neha, “Not Byamba, of course. My son in Budapest though. Acts like he got kicked in the head by a horse or something. A complete imbecile.”

“Like father, like son,” Kaidu mutters.

Byamba’s hands fist but Neha touches his forearm, "Don’t talk like that. We have a beautiful, kind son. Now he give us the gift of grandchildren."

"Truly he is a blessing," Kaidu says, grinding his teeth. He glances st Khutulun, his eyes intent on her abdomen, "You intend to marry, of course."

"We had not spoke on the matter," Khutulun says.

Kaidu and then his parents turn to look at Byamba. He speaks with certainty, "We will wed."

He touches Khutulun’s shoulder, noting that her muscles are tense under his palm.

She doesn’t speak. Not when his mother pulls them into her embrace, not when her father kisses her cheek and shoots a glare at Byamba, and most certainly not when Kublai slaps Byamba’s shoulder, not entirely playful in his gestures, and loudly proclaims, “But of course, you work for me. Don’t expect favors.”

Byamba and Khutulun drive straight home, stopping only to pick up food, which neither of them touches. Once they arrive to their house, Khutulun finally animates.

She pulls of her coat, her eyes troubled, as she waits for him to put their things away in the closet.

“I don’t want to marry you,” Khutulun says finally.

Byamba takes a moment to compose himself, carefully putting their coats on hanger before hanging them nicely, so their clothes wouldn’t wrinkle.

“Did you hear me?” Khutulun asks.

“I know how you feel about the topic but I think we should discuss it again. Circumstances have changed,” Byamba says, “We are not the only concerned parties anymore.”

“Nothing has changed for me, except for you not respecting my wishes as you once did,” Khutulun turns, storming up the stairs.

"I still value your wishes, Khutulun. Please at least consider my opinion. What will you tell our children when they learn we were not married when they were born?" Byamba snaps, following her up the stairs.

"I will tell them they were conceived in the garage of my brother’s house while we escaped from their drunken uncles singing bad karaoke to Bruno Mars and to stop being high and mighty. The odds were never in their favor. Besides with parents like us being illegitimate is the least of their problems."

"I am not laughing," Byamba says, wincing, "We already are united by this. Khutulun, and we will be for many years. Why not be joined on a more official basis?"

"Is that a proposal? Am I a business transaction to you?" Khutulun snaps, "You are worse than Marco."

"No," Byamba says. He tries to remain calm. He knows anger will not help his cause. Yet he finds he can barely contain himself, "You are more to me. You know you are."

"This is very romantic. We can tell our children, 'Your mother and father looked at their lives and thought, ‘We are trapped. Why not legally be trapped?'", Khutulun looks at his flabbergasted face. Her mouth curls, half amused, half furious at his shock, "Is there more? Perhaps you wish to wrestle me to the ground and drag me to the courthouse? It would be the perfect ending to this story."

Byamba opens him mouth to respond but below, the door to the garage slams shut. It is Kokachin, home from work.

Khutulun holds up a hand, “There is nothing more to discuss and I will not have her hears us argue. I get enough of her judgement as it is.”

Byamba obliges her. They both know full and well that this is not the end of their conversation.

.  
.  
.

The moment Khutulun entered the house, she is overwhelmed by a familiar smell. She tries to doubt herself but she can’t. Her brother Orus, after all, had been an enthusiastic consumer of the substance in question.“Byamba? Kokachin?”

Who is she kidding?

“Marco. Marco Polo, where are you?” Khutulun calls out, entering the kitchen.

Outside on the porch, she hears a crash and something being dragged. Marco appears at the door, his foot tangled in a lawn chair, eyes, most unmistakably, as large as saucers and red to boot. He demands, a bit too loud to be completely innocent, “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” Khutulun retorts, slipping out of her jacket, happy to be free of the constricting clothes.

“You are supposed to be at work until later tonight,” Marco says, his voice crackling like a growing boy’s. “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Khutulun says, smiling in spite of herself at the situation before her, “Is this what you do when you are not working?”

“Of course not!” Marco squeaks, “It’s just, I have taken on so much extra work to get into Kublai Khan’s good graces - and I know that I must because I have a family to provide for - but,” he waves his hands about, his eyes very dull looking now that she can see properly, “I needed a moment to be free.”

Khutulun takes in the sight before her: her Latin friend, who looks as if he hasn’t slept in days, wearing a sleeveless shirt emblazoned with the loud yellow words, “Snuggle Monster”, trying desperately to hide a purple bong in the shape of a familiar cartoon dinosaur behind his back, which if his wincing is an indication, is still burning hot from his lighter.

“Please, Khutulun,” Marco says, “keep this to yourself.”

She pauses, just long enough for his gaze to become delightfully desperate before she says, “Alright but on one condition.” She pauses again, very much amused by his frantic expression. She briefly contemplates making him do something truly awful but then thinks better, “Give me a foot massage and this will stay between us.”

Marco exhales loudly. “Of course. Come. I will do that now.”

He puts his bong back behind the flowers pots where he hides it and pulls at the lawn chair which is still trapped around his leg, unfolding it so that she may sit down. He pulls her leg up, so enthusiastically, she nearly falls out of her chair. She leans back, chuckling at the situation, and Marco grins too, “I am quite adept at this. I give Kokachin a back rub almost every night.”

“Is that so?” Khutulun asks, closing her eyes. This is absurd, she thinks. She cannot wait to tell Byamba. It seemed that with his fixation on marriage and her refusal to talk about the subject, they had very little to discuss as of late. She hopes they can laugh over this, as they used to.

“How was work?” Marco asks.

“Endless,” Khutulun replies, “but I would have it no other way.”

“You like you job?” Marco says, his fingers working at the tight muscles around her ankles.

“Yes,” Khutulun says with a sigh. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Marco says, “It is mindless drudgery. It is temporary, or so I must remind myself. I hope that if I keep at it, perhaps one day I can support myself and my family with my writing.”

“And if you can’t?” Khutulun says. She opens her eyes and looks down at Marco, who has pauses in his ministrations.

“I do not live like that,” Marco says, “I believe good things can happen, if you reach for them with both hands.”

Khutulun chuckles, “That is what has always been charming about you, you know that?”

“I try my best,” Marco says, putting down the foot he has been handling to reach for the other.

Inside, the door to the garage slams shut. The footsteps which travel through the kitchen out to the patio where they sit are easily recognizable.

“What are you doing?” Byamba asks.

Marco opens his mouth but Khutulun speaks first, to drown out whatever it is the Latin has to say, “We were just enjoying the nice day.”

“Do you think I’m an idiot? I can smell it, Khutulun,” Byamba snaps. He throws his coat to the floor, his eyes furious, “Do you even care that our neighbor is a policeman? Do you? Of course, you don’t. You take nothing seriously.”

“What do you mean?” Khutulun asks, standing up so fast, she nearly kicks Marco in the face. Byamba retreats into the house but she follows him, “You think you can yell at me and then walk away without repercussion? Come back here.”

“I said what I meant. You take nothing seriously,” Byamba says.

“And that means nothing to me,” Khutulun says. She turns to see Marco is huddling in the backyard still and goes to shut the door. When they have some privacy, she turns back to Byamba, “What do I not take seriously? Tell me. I would love to know.”

“Forget that I said anything,” Byamba says, climbing the stairs to their room.

“No. No no no,” Khutulun replies, “I am so tired of this. You say something aggravating and then you apologize and refuse to talk to me. I’ve had enough. Tell me what you want to tell me.”

“I meant nothing. Leave it alone,” Byamba says back, his voice still annoyingly soft, “Please relax. This isn’t good for the babies.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you are the only one who wants what is best for them,” Khutulun says, her voice becoming louder despite her attempts to control it.

“Khutulun please,” Byamba says, his voice sounded frayed.

“I will not,” Khutulun yells, “You always act like I am unreasonable and you are perfect. You are not. You are - ” She cannot even finish the thought. She throws herself into their room, barely able to resist the urge to slam the door.

“How should I be?” Byamba asks, screaming finally. “Should I be like you? Should I be thoughtless and selfish?”

Khutulun freezes. There it is. He finally speaks his mind. She grinds her teeth but in spite of herself, she begins to shake. Speaking with calm she did not realize she was still capable of, she says “I cannot live with you if you refuse to accept my decision. I will not allow myself or my children to be in an house where you hold a grudge against me.”

Byamba stands in the doorway, looking at her. For a moment, she thinks he is contemplating her statement. Then, he looks down to the carpet and says, “I have seen this before. Love and children without true commitment and it ends badly. I need to be married to the mother of my children. Anything less will not satisfy me. I want no less for my family.”

Khutulun’s mouth goes dry. Had she not seen this a dozen times before with her own parents? She had and she had no love for it. “I don’t need you Byamba.”

She flies down the steps, barely able to control herself. She hears him following her but she can’t bring herself to care. She grabs her bag and her keys and this time, she allows herself to shut the door so forcefully, the entire house shakes.

.  
.  
.

"What is he doing out there?" Byamba asks, coming to stand behind her at the window which looks out into the garden.

Below them, Marco is kneeling on the lawn, his hands busy on the blades of grass before him.

Kokachin fights a smirk, "Cutting the grass with manicure scissors. Another one of his self inflicted punishments for the incident."

Byamba rolls his eyes. "He may be an idiot but at least he acknowledge it."

"I couldn't be his if he were anything else," Kokachin says. She sees Byamba looking at his phone out of the corner of her eye. "Has she responded?"

Byamba snaps his phone shut, "No."

“She was too rash. Throwing you away over one single argument,” Kokachin says, clicking her tongue. Byamba glances at her and she immediately regrets her statement, “I’m sorry. It is not my place to make such observations.”

“Yet you make such observations anyway,” Byamba notes, “And it was more than one argument.”

Kokachin bites her lip, “I’m sorry. I merely think you deserved better. So many of your problems with her seem like they could be solve by her being more accommodating.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Byamba replies, “Have you told Marco about your own predicament?”

Kokachin turns and moves away from him. She has not told Marco and everyday she feels worse about it. Kokachin shuts her eye, wondering if her own words have made Byamba feel as terrible as she does. She takes a deep breath and says, “You are my closest friend. We shouldn’t make each other angry or sad like this.”

“I agree,” Byamba says. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder, “I’m sorry too.”

Kokachin nods, accepting his apology. She glances down at Marco, still clipping the lawn with his small pair of scissors and then to Byamba, who looks miserable. A spontaneous thoughts enters her mind, “We should go out.”

Kokachin is too pregnant to go to club or a bar, Marco is too poor to go out to eat, and Byamba is in no mood to see a movie or go bowling or miniature golfing. So they go to one place, they all can tolerate: the baby store.

“This could be fun,” Kokachin says, clutching Byamba’s arm, “What theme do you want to do for the twins’ nursery?”

“We are going to do lions for our little girl,” Marco says, examining a display for diapers before grabbing a pack which are labeled ‘size one to three months’.

“I’m not sure,” Byamba says. He thinks that more than likely his children will have a nursery at his home and Khutulun’s and the thought makes him wish they were somewhere else. “I suppose the color green would be nice. Or perhaps yellow?”

“Why don’t you make their nursery look like a garden?” Marco says.

“That would be lovely!” Kokachin says, “We could paint flowers and ladybugs and grasshoppers on the wall!”

Kokachin’s enthusiasm is infectious. Byamba smiles down at her, “I think they will like that.”

“You and I can go and look at furniture. They will need cribs and a changing station and bedding. Marco and I were already given things by his aunt. We can go home tonight and set up together,” Kokachin says, pulling him along.

“I must be old,” Byamba says, “because that sounds like a good night.”

“And I will get you some clothes. I just got paid and it’s the least I can do for you,” Marco says, “Ask Kokachin. I pick the cutest clothes.”

“Did he pick out that onsie with the screaming emoticon and the word ‘hangry’ underneath?” Byamba asks Kokachin, his voice low to spare Marco’s feelings.

“You will get the final say,” Kokachin assures him.

There are more decisions to make than Byamba would ever have thought but Kokachin helps him. They pick a crib in a smooth, dark brown wood which has a matching dresser that doubles as a changing table. He tries to be practical but Byamba also splurges on a small bookshelf, a rocking chair, mobiles, and rugs.

“We have chosen a name,” Kokachin says as they lead their cart to the cash register, “Altani. And her middle name will be Nicole, after Marco’s mother.” She strokes her belly, smiling fondly, “I cannot wait to hold her.”

“I feel the same way,” Byamba says. He begins to slow and Kokachin turns to face him. Byamba speaks, his voice cautious, “Is this what you want? A life with your baby and Marco?”

Kokachin nods. “Are you alright?”

“I have a sister,” Byamba says suddenly, “She is a divorce lawyer. I think she could help you with your problem. Marco wouldn’t even need to know.”

“You would do that for me?” Kokachin asks.

“I would,” Byamba says, “It is your past. You should be the one to decide what you wish to share and what you wish will remain hidden. It should have no bearing on what you do with yourself now.”

Kokachin shakes her head and when she looks into Byamba’s eyes, her own gaze is shiny with tears, “Thank you.”

She loops her arm around his elbow and they continue walking together.

“Do you know what would make this night very special?” Byamba asks.

“What?”

“Pizza.”

Kokachin’s jaw drops, “I thought I loved you before.”

.  
.  
.

Byamba paints a red circle, which despite his care, is not even. He brushes black paint on it, forming a head before spotting the red and making curly antenae. He can see every flaw and yet still Kokachin raves about it.

“It looks just like a ladybug,” Kokachin says, from her seat by the door. They would not let her paint, said the chemical were not good for her or the baby but she still wants to watch and Marco allows it so long as they have many windows open. She looks coyly at Byamba, “Are you certain you are not an artist?”

Marco huffs at this. He had attempted to make a butterfly but it is little more than an X with two dots in the middle that were meant to be eyes. After this, they make him do the grass. It is difficult to ruin curved green lines.

It becomes silent, and as it always does, the conversation starts on the same topic.

“What about Adrasteia?” Marco says.

“Adrashteya?” Kokachin asks, “Where do you hear of that?”

“She was the nymph who fostered Zeus,” Marco says, “Elegant, is it not?”

“No, nothing from those strange Greek myths,” Byamba says, focusing on the grasshopper he carefully paints, jumping through the flowers.

“I also like names that make a point,” Marco says, “For example, what if your son’s name was ‘Justice’?”

“No,” Byamba says, “My children will not be names after nouns.”

“What about after someone in your family?” Kokachin says, “Your great aunt or so Toregene was a strong character.”

“My mother insists I do not name them after anyone in the family. Too much expectation she says,” Byamba says, “Although I did want to name my daughter Neha. It was not meant to be.”

“How about . . .” Marco begins.

“I have told you before,” Byamba says, “There is no point to these conversations. It is one of the many things Khutulun and I must discuss.”

“Have you spoken to her?” Kokachin asks.

“I called her again and her father answered,” Byamba replies, “He asked for my address. I am hoping this means he will come and see me. I am hoping Khutulun will come too.”

Kokachin does not think much of that but she manages a smile, “Perhaps she will be your date to our wedding.”

Byamba smiles back at her, secretly grateful for her optimism. “I hope so.”

The doorbell rings. Marco and Byamba rise but Kokachin waves them away. “You are both dirty. I will get it.”

It takes her several minutes to get down the stairs. By the time she is at the door, it has rung twice more. Kokachin opens the door to find an red-faced man, wearing a postman’s attire, impatient tapping his foot.

“Byamba Khan,” the man says, upon seeing her, “I need Byamba Khan. I have a box he must sign for.”

Nonplussed by his rudeness, Kokachin calls for her friend. She hears him, washing his hands in the upstairs bathroom and then lumbering down the stairs. Kokachin watch their strange visitor, wondering why the box in his hand has no postage.

“Hello - ” Byamba says.

“Byamba Khan?” the man asks. Before Byamba can do more than nod, the man thrusts an envelope into Byamba’s chest, “You’ve been served.”

The man rushes away, before Kokachin or Byamba can respond. Confused, Byamba opens the envelope as Kokachin looks over his shoulder. It has several court documents in it. They both look it over, understanding what the papers are at nearly the same time.

“Child support,” Kokachin says.

Byamba shakes his head but says, “They are my babies. I will do what I must to provide for them.”

“$1800 at month?” Kokachin gasps, “We must check that. It is nearly a quarter of what you make. How will you survive?”

“I will make do,” Byamba says. He cannot take his eyes off the final page in his hand. He does not want to see the document but it seems to glare at him.

Finally Kokachin sees too, “Full custody. She wants full custody. She has said nothing about visitation for you either. We must see that you get your time with the twins too.”

“It’s - ” Byamba says and then he can say nothing more. He had thought that this separation was temporary, if he were being honest. He takes the papers from Kokachin and heads to his room. Marco sticks his head out of the nursery but before he can ask what is happening, Kokachin motions for him to be silent. Neither of them follow Byamba, to his relief.

.  
.  
.

Kokachin looks happy.

So does Marco but he is a fool and fools are always so full of joy because they know no better. For this, Byamba has always envied Marco. Life seems to be so easy for him. Byamba shakes his head at the thought. He should be happy for his friends, not bitter.

Kokachin and Marco stand on the balcony which overlooks the ocean, arm in arm. Marco is whispering things in her ear, his hand stroking her big stomach. Kokachin is laughing at whatever Marco is telling her.

‘How lovely,’ Byamba thinks, his jaw tight, ‘How absolutely perfect.’

Had weddings always made him this bitter? Perhaps. He had always despised how his father never tried to make any real commitment to his mother. Yet he had never truly felt such disdain for all this until now, when he himself was the one who was unwanted.

Byamba takes a deep breath and then another. There is nothing he can do about his own circumstances and there is no point driving himself mad over it. Yet he sees Kokachin’s ring when she reaches out to stroke Marco’s cheek, he sees Marco’s foolish smile, and he sees how late it is and remembers he must go to his second job soon, and he can barely control himself.

Out of habit, he feels himself reaching for his phone to check for messages. As always, there are none. He doesn’t even know what he would do if she reached out to him. He would argue with her over the mess they have made for themselves, try to bargain with her, try reasoning with her to make all of this easier, tell her how much he misses her -

Byamba shuts his eyes, forcing himself to stop.

He feels a soft hand, stroking his neck. It’s his mother. He smiles at her. In spite of his own conflicts, it is a genuine expression. It is easy to smile for her.

“Are you having a good time?” Neha asks him. She knows he is upset. She always massages his neck when she thinks he is upset.

He moves away from her. The last thing he wants is pity. He waves his hand around, gesturing towards the few guests who remain, “It’s nice.”

It was not an impressive ceremony. Most of Marco’s family had refused to come, due to Kokachin’s condition. Yet many of the couple’s friend were there and those who were in attendance, were full of joy. Marco and Kokachin would remember this day as a happy one.

“It is nice,” Neha says, watching him carefully. “They seem happy together.”

“I know they are,” Byamba says. He gently removes her hand from his neck and stands, “I need to go to work. Can I drop you off at home?”

“I’ll be fine,” Neha says, “So you have taken your father’s offer to make deliveries?”

“I did,” Byamba says, “I need to support my children.”

“I knew you would,” Neha replies, “How is Khutulun?”

“I don’t know,” Byamba says, grabbing his jacket.

“Khutulun. I remember when you were twelve years old and she kissed you after soccer practice. I always thought she would be the mother of your children. I just knew,” Neha says, “You miss her, don’t you?”

Byamba exhales loudly. His mother is still staring at him. He relents, saying, “I know it is not always best to rely on one person to fulfill so many roles but she was my best friend.”

Neha stands up. Knowing what she wants, he bends so that she can kiss his forehead. He lets her hand linger on his cheek, affection rising in his chest for her.

“I’ll see you on Sunday,” Byamba says.

“Same time, same place,” Neha replies.

He begins to leave but stops himself. There is no need to be rude. He goes to the balcony, calling to his friend, “Marco. Kokachin.”

Marco hugs him tightly, muttering into his ear, “Thank you for all that you have done for us.”

Byamba looks carefully at his friend but stops himself. Even if Marco knows what Byamba and his sister had done, if it none of his concern. Byamba smiles to himself and leans to kiss Kokachin’s cheek.

“Thank you for coming. We appreciate it and so does your goddaughter,” Kokachin says, stroking her stomach with a smile.

“It was nothing,” Byamba says, “Congratulations again.”

They smile but he knows they want to be alone. He looks around one last time. The ceremony had really be nothing special and yet. . .

He does not think about it too much. He is late for work.

.  
.  
.

Kokachin should not be here. It is none of her business and no one asked her to help. She pauses for the hundredth time, trying to see if she can muster the will to leave. As it has a hundred times prior, Kokachin does not back away from her task. She knocks on the door again.

The door opens finally and Kokachin sees three very tall, lanky, half-dressed men in the entryway. The one in the middle, wearing only boxers, is Khutulun’s brother Orus. The other two must be Khutulun’s brothers as well.

“We have a bet,” Orus says, his eyes lingering on her midsection. “Who are you here for?”

“Khutulun,” Kokachin finally manages to say.

“That’s new,” the man to the right of Orus mutters.

“I’ll get her,” the third man says with a grin. He turns and screams so loudly Kokachin’s ears ring, “Hey Khutulun! There’s a potential baby mama here for you!”

“I can go and see her,” Kokachin says, “May I come in?”

“Sure,” Orus says, moving so she can enter.

“You have a lovely home,” Kokachin says, mostly to dispel the awkwardness she feels as all three of them stare at her. It’s true at least. Kaidu’s mansion is not quite as large at Kublai’s but it is much more tastefully decorated with cream marble floors and bright chandeliers.

“Thank you,” one of Khutulun’s brother says, “It’s not just a place to land when you’re getting divorced. It’s home.”

“What are you doing here?”

Kokachin turns. Khutulun looks down at her from the top of the stairs. Kokachin resists the urge to hide herself. She is here for Byamba. “I came to see you.”

“About what?” Khutulun demands.

Kokachin winces at Khutulun’s tone. “I think you know.”

Khutulun’s brothers makes noises as if they are scandalized by this statement but Khutulun ignores them. Her eyes are still intent on Kokachin as she says, “Come here. We will talk in my room.”

Kokachin steps carefully up the long staircase, withering under Khutulun’s gaze.

“Hey Khutulun,” Orus calls out, “Can I watch?”

“Go play in traffic Orus,” Khutulun snaps. She gestures down the long hallway, “Right this way, princess.”

“Thank you,” Kokachin says calmly.

One of the doors opens and a woman emerges. Khutulun’s sister, Kokachin thinks, “Khutulun? What is going on?”

“Nothing Saruul,” Khutulun says, leading Kokachin to the room at the end of the hall.

“Then who is that?” Saruul asks, “Is that - ”

“Saruul stop,” Khutulun says, her fingers digging into the small of her back, “I don’t need your smothering. If you’re bored, go seduce the gardener like Maidar did.”

Saruul glares, opening her mouth to add something but before she can speak, Khutulun has pushed Kokachin into her room and slammed the door shut. Kokachin sits on the bed, looking around.

“This is a nice room,” Kokachin says.

Khutulun scoffs, pacing the ground before Kokachin, “It hasn’t been changed since I was sixteen. It’s a room for a child. What do you want?”

Kokachin briefly considers stalling more but thinks better of it. If Khutulun wants abrupt, she will be abrupt.

“You were very cruel to Byamba,” Kokachin says, “He deserves better than you but since there are children involved, I think the least you can do is speak to him. Give him that at least.”

“None of this is your business,” Khutulun snarls, “Who do you think you are? Coming into my house and talking to me like I am some kind of idiot.”

“He is a good man,” Kokachin says, “At least respect him enough to talk to him.”

“These are affairs which have nothing to do with you,” Khutulun says. She stops, pausing, before her eyes move to focus on something beyond Kokachin’s head, “And beyond that, you know nothing. Byamba refuses to talk to me.”

“What?” Kokachin says, “No, that can’t be true. I see Byamba on his phone all the time. Even after the custody papers were served, he is always texting you and emailing you and calling you. He doesn’t almost nothing else.”

“Custody papers? What are you talking about? ” Khutulun says.

“How can you not know about that?” Kokachin asks.

“Don’t talk down to me, princess,” Khutulun says, “I have not asked for any money from him.”

“Well someone did,” Kokachin says, “Byamba is running himself ragged and all because you couldn’t be bothered to notice someone was filing paperwork in your name.”

“Who do you think you are? If I said I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it,” Khutulun says, “Get out of my house.”

“Gladly.” Kokachin says. She shoves her way past Khutulun and is reaching for the door when it happens. Wetness trickles down her leg and splashes onto the ground.

“What did you just do to my floor?” Khutulun asks.

“It’s not that. I think my baby is coming. The hospital. I must go to the hospital right?” Kokachin says. She feels her pulse begin to quicken but forces herself to think rationally. It could be false labor again and even if it isn’t, the baby would only be three weeks early. Everything will be fine. Everythingwillbefine. “I need to got to the hospital, right?”

“Yes, you should go to the hospital. Can you drive?” Khutulun says. Kokachin shots her a look and Khutulun holds up her hands in defense. “I’ll get someone to take you.” She hurries to open the door to find her brothers bent forward with their ears pressed to the door. “Can one of your idiots drive her to the hospital?”

Two of her brother outright shake their head. Only Orus answers truthfully, “Probably not a good idea. I’m in no state to drive. If you know what I mean.”

“It is 10:30 in the morning,” Khutulun says, slapping him so hard, even Kokachin winces. Khutulun turns to yell down the hall, “Saruul! Can you take Kokachin to the hospital?”

Saruul does not even come out of her room. She yells through the door, “What did you say? I’m too busy seducing the gardener to hear any requests for favors.”

Khutulun curses savagely. She throws her hands in the air, “Alright! I’ll take you but if I see Marco, I cannot be held responsible for anything I do.”

.  
.  
.

Marco rubs another layer of aloe vera on his sun burnt skin. He should have known better than to fall asleep outside without sunscreen on. He can already imagine the lecture Kokachin will give him when she returns.

He smiles. She has been moody as of late but he cannot fault her. He is too happy, to excited for everything that is to come to be angry at anything.

She will be hungry, he thinks, so he decides to go and make her some lunch. He notices the clock over the oven and stops. It is almost two in the afternoon. Where is she? He goes to get his phone to call her, noting that he had the sound turned off . . .

And finds he has 37 missed calls and 37 voicemails.

The first eight inform him that Kokachin has gone into labor and Khutulun took her to the hospital and ask where in god’s name has he gone off to. Panic fills him but he still wonders why she was visiting Khutulun.

He begins to look for his keys and then stops. Didn’t Kokachin have a bag she had packed for the hospital? No, one things at a time. He must get a shirt. He is wearing only a swimsuit and flip flops. Where are the keys? Where is the bag Kokachin needs? Should he pack another for her?

The phone is still recalling his voicemail to him. Twelve more messages are asking where he is. Where are his keys? Does he even have enough gas to get to the hospital? Should he take his motorcycle? Where is his helmet? Where are his keys for the motorcycle?

There are more message of course. He attempts to hold the phone against his ear as he digs through the laundry. He think he may have left the keys in his pocket. Or perhaps they are in the bathroom? Or in his lunch box in the refrigerator? Why does he not use the hook that Kokachin got for him? This would all be much easier if he put them in a set place like she told him to. He is so lucky to have her. WHERE ARE THOSE KEYS?

Six of the messages inform him that Khutulun appears to be going into labor as well. Marco freezes as he listens. Byamba will be furious if he is not told about this news. Marco tries to call Byamba but his friend does not answer. He sends him a brief text message: ‘Going to hospital. Please come. The girls are about to make us both fathers!!!’ Yes, that is good. Marco throws open the refrigerator door. Should he bring Kokachin a snack? He was supposed to do many things. What were they? Yes, the bag. And what else?

There are eight messages, five from Khutulun and three from Kokachin, all, more or less, cursing his family lineage. The keys are in his shoes! How could he have forgotten? What else was he supposed to get for Kokachin?

Another three messages, threatening divorce if he does not answer. He does not have time to waste. It must have been hours since Kokachin's labor began. He does not want to miss anything else. He grabs his keys and races out the door.

.  
.  
.

It takes him several minutes to find them. Kokachin is not registered under her maiden name and by the time Marco realizes she is listed under her married name, he has waste nearly a half of an hour. He takes the stairs rather than wait for the elevator, sprints up to the eighth floor, and then back down to the correct fifth floor. Finally, an amused secretary points him to the room where his wife is waiting.

“Kokachin,” Marco says, as he bursts into her room, “I am here.”

She is drenched in sweat, digging her fingernails into her mattress. If he had to guess, he would not say she was happy to see him,“Very good. Finally you have done one simple task correctly.”

“I am sorry. I was taking a nap you see - ” Marco says before he can think of something better.

“I am trying to give birth to your child and you were sleeping like a fat, useless dog?” Kokachin snaps. She groans, both from pain and anger, “All I have ever done is love you and this is what I get in return. The universe hates me.”

“Kokachin, look at me,” Marco says. He had read in his books that he must be a source of inspiration to the birthing mother and he would be, “You are strong. You are beautiful - ”

“Do not speak to me. You couldn’t even be bothered to change out of your bathing suit,” She snarls, kicking at him, narrowly missing his knee. The commotion causes the nurse to come and see what is happening. The nurse checks Kokachin and announcing she will be bringing what Kokachin really needs: pain medicine.

They force him out of the room while Kokachin is being given an epidural so he sprints down the hall, to the protest of the staff, and goes to Khutulun’s room. His friend is dressed in a hospital gown and is bent over the side of her bed, groaning.

“It’s alright,” Marco says, “I am here for you, Khutulun. Do you want me to hold you?”

Khutulun looks up and too late, Marco sees the ferocity in her eyes. He immediately feels very stupid in his Hawaiian printed swim trunks and flip flops. Kokachin’s nurse had rolled her eyes and given him a hospital gown to cover his bare chest but he still looks like a beach bum.

He moves but it is too late, Khutulun has already grabbed him.

“Why are you here?” Khutulun seethes, “You ruin everything and yet you never suffer any consequences. Are you happy? Are you happy that you couldn’t control yourself and yet somehow I ended up losing everything? ARE YOU?”

“Khutulun,” Marco manages to say, “Please. I’m sorry.”

“I do not accept your apology,” Khutulun says, squeezing his most prized possession even more tightly.

“Alright, darling,” a nurse says, entering the room. She gently pulls Khutulun’s arm away from Marco, to his immense relief. “Let’s just focus on right now. You can kill him later.”

“I need to put my hands around his neck,” Khutulun insists, even as the nurse goes lay her down, “Just for a moment, just to know what it’s feels like.”

“Later,” the nurse says. She glances at Marco and adds, “You’re not the first man this has happened to. Don’t look so tortured.”

“He ruined my life,” Khutulun mutters, still looking murderous at Marco.

The nurse shushes Khutulun before adding without looking at Marco, “Your wife is asking for you. Does she know about your friend here?”

Marco’s jaw drops but before he can offer correction, Khutulun’s eye glimmers and she says, her voice menacing, “Most expensive mistake you ever made, foreigner,” Khutulun nods to the nurse, “He told me he was single.”

“You can make him suffer later, darling,” the nurse says. She tucks Khutulun’s blanket around her before moving to check on the baby monitor, “I think it’s time to call the doctor. You're progressing quickly,” The nurse strokes Khutulun’s cheek before leaving but not before ramming into Marco with her shoulder.

“What can I do for you Khutulun?” Marco begs, “I will do anything.”

"Shouldn't you be getting high and then getting lost in the wilderness?" Khutulun asks, just before the doctor enters. The doctor looks at Marco, his judgement clear in his eyes.

“I think she would like something for the pain - ” Marco says, as gently as he can.

“No,” Khutulun seethes. She turns to the doctor, “You say they are both head down? I want to do this naturally. My boyfriend and I will get through this together, suffering for this cause. He will feel every shred of pain I feel. We're in this together,” Khutulun says. She reaches out and grabs Marco’s hand, gripping him so tightly, he feels his bones begin to shatter.

The doctor looks at Khutulun with murderous intent in her eyes and Marco looking terrified and shrugs. “That’s fine with me. Use the call light if you need anything.”

Marco waits until Khutulun is distracted by another contraction before he makes his escape.

Kokachin is in tears when Marco returns. He goes to take her hand but she pushes him away, preferring to grip the side rails of her bed.

"You deserve better," the nurse says, clucking her tongue as she watches. Marco turns and is horrified to see that the nurse caring for Khutulun is the same nurse caring for Kokachin.

Marco looks to Kokachin, racking his brain for possible responses to this egregious accusation. He nearly passes out with relief when Kokachin nods and says, "I do need better, I think. The epidural doesn’t seem to be working. Can I have something else? So long as it wouldn't hurt the baby?"

“In a bit,” the nurse says, “I think we should wait to see if the epidural starts to work.”

Kokachin sits back, grimacing. Marco tries to take her hand again and this time she lets him. He kisses her knuckles, pained by her hurt.

“Do you have any allergies?” the nurse asks Kokachin.

“Yes,” Kokachin says, “An antibiotic. I’m sorry but I can’t remember what it was called. They gave it me before I had a surgery.”

“I see,” the nurse replies, pulling up Kokachin’s chart on the computer on the wall, “Oh, there’s a record of it here. You came in for a broken jaw, a fractured arm, and a concussion, right?” The nurse stops and then looks at Marco, “What did you say your name was?”

“Marco Polo. I am her husband,” Marco says. He looks at Kokachin, “What happened to you that you were so badly hurt? Some of kind of car crash?”

Kokachin freezes. This is the very last conversation she wants to have at this moment.

“Ah,” the nurse says, “I’ll update this so it says Marco Polo is your husband.”

Marco chuckles, “That’s strange. Do you think it had someone else’s name?”

Kokachin opens her mouth and then closes it quickly. Marco is looking at her. Finally she manages, “I think it may have had my first husband’s name on the record.”

“You were married before?” Marco asks.

The nurse clears her throat and excuses herself. Neither Marco nor Kokachin notice.

“I was married, before you and before Jingim,” Kokachin says, her voice low, “Byamba’s sister had it annulled so that we could be wed.”

“You never told me,” Marco notes, “Why would you keep that a secret?”

“It was the worst time of my life,” Kokachin says, her eyes burning, “I didn’t want that pain to spoil our happiness now.”

He doesn't waste a moment to think, as always.

“It doesn’t change anything,” Marco says, “You and this baby are my life. I love you, no matter what your past was like. You are still kind and wonderful and I will devote my life to honoring you.”

She grips his hand, blinking back tears, “I love you.”

The phone rings loudly on the bedside table. Kokachin reaches to answer it. She listens and her mouth curls into a smile. She puts the phone on her shoulders and says to Marco, “It is Khutulun. She is suffering and would like for you to come to her room and let her strangle you a bit.”

Marco shudders, “How am I to do this? I want to be there for her but you need me too.”

In the door, someone clears their throat. Marco and Kokachin turn to see Byamba. Their friend smiles, holding up Kokachin’s bag which he brought with him, before saying, “I will tend to Khutulun.”

Marco sits up, grinning at his friend, “Can you believe this Byamba? Our children will have the same birthday. April 20th.”

Byamba shakes his head, “It’s a good day today.”

“I will show you her room,” Marco says, gently pulling away from Kokachin, “I will be right back, my love.”

Marco ducks out into the hall, leading Byamba to Khutulun’s room. Upon seeing Marco, Khutulun opens her mouth, no doubt to tease or insult him. When she notices Byamba is with him, she remains silent, her eyes looking at Byamba alone.

Marco watches them both, knowing they are both thinking of the past few months, the arguments, the bitterness. He worries for the briefest second that Khutulun will not want Byamba there or Byamba will change his mind and leave.

Then Khutulun reaches out a hand and Byamba moves to take it.

“You’ll stay with me the whole time, yes?” Khutulun asks.

“I will,” Byamba says.

It is almost too much for Marco. The birth of his first child, his friends coming together for their family, and all the emotional turmoil of childbirth itself. He bites his lip, taking one last glance at Khutulun and Byamba before going to Kokachin’s side.

.  
.  
.

Byamba hovers over Marco’s shoulder. His friend is very carefully with both of the babies in his arms but Byamba still feels overprotective.

“Balal,” Marco says in a high pitched voice. Byamba’s son gnaws on his own hand, his dark eyes watching the man who is holding him. Marco makes a silly face, “Your hand? Did you find your hand?” Marco shakes the foot of the sleeping baby girl, nestled in his other arm, “Your brother is so talented, isn’t he Kavya?”

Byamba glances at Kokachin, who rolls her eyes playfully back at him. Byamba sighs, sits back in his chair. Kokachin’s daughter squirms in Byamba's arms but does not awaken.

“Beautiful names for beautiful children,” the nurse says, as she staples their discharge paperwork together, “How did you come up with them?”

“Khutulun named Balal after an old friend she had as a child ,” Byamba says, “And I have always liked the name Kavya.”

“Congratulations again,” the nurse says, handing him a thick stack of papers, “You’re free to go whenever you wish.”

“Thank you for all that you’ve done,” Byamba says. She smiles at him before leaving.

Kokachin stands and takes Balal from Marco’s arms. “Forgive me, little one. I am not entirely sure how this car seat works. I am afraid we will have to learn together.”

Balal gurgles. Kokachin underestimated herself. She tucks Byamba’s son into his carrier with ease.

Marco, who insists on putting Kavya and Altani in their respective car seats, however, is not so fortunate. Kokachin stands over him, attempting to help him, with little success. Kokachin does not mind, however. She fights a grin, her tone calm no matter what kind of knots Marco makes of the straps.

Khutulun returns, as Marco is attempting to adjust the buckles on Altani’s seat. She meets eyes with Byamba, who is fighting the urge to finish the simple task Marco is failing so thorough at, and motions for him to follow her out into the hallway. He quietly obliges.

“I spoke to my father,” Khutulun says when they are alone, “He was the one who filed the child support and custody papers you received. He seems to have misunderstood what transpired between us. I set him straight.”

“What did happen between us?” Byamba asks.

Khutulun shakes her head, “I almost can’t remember.”

“I do,” Byamba says, “I wished to marry. You were absolutely against the idea. We argued. You left.”

“It was not that simple - ” Khutulun says. He waits but she does not elaborate. She clears her throat and adds, “I know your mother was never married to your father and that was a hardship but that was not the case for me. My father married nine times. Each divorce was worse than the last. My brothers and sisters have not had better success. I have seen so many marriages fail in my family.”

“I see,” Byamba says, “Do you think we would meet the same fate if we married?”

“I am not sure and I do not wish to find out,” Khutulun says, “but I do know that I want us to go home with you. Marco told me about the nursery you made for the twins.”

“I am not certain that is a good idea,” Byamba says, “There is much we need to talk about.”

“Then we will talk about it,” Khutulun says. She moves closer to him, her hands reaching for him before she stops herself. Byamba shakes his head but she broadens her shoulders and says, “You know, you can always ask me again. I think you will like the answer this time.”

“Is that so?” Byamba asks.

“It is,” Khutulun says. She shrugs one shoulder, as she used to do when she was challenging him to a bet.

He stand taller, reaching for her hand. Khutulun leans towards him, her eyes on his lips, before she focuses her gaze on his eyes. “Will you marry me, Khutulun?”

“Someday,” Khutulun replies, her lips grinning at him.

“And that is the answer you think I want?” Byamba asks her.

“Isn’t it better than my last?” Khutulun asks.

“Very,” Byamba admits. Even after all these years, he still cannot resist the urge to kiss her. He shakes his head at the thought but doesn’t deny it. He leans in, finding the press of her lips against his still fills him with the same joy it always has.

“We should go. Your mother is waiting isn’t she?” Khutulun says, lacing her hand in his.

“She is,” Byamba says. And just like that, as simple as it can be, they are together again.

They return to their room where Marco has finally finished his battle with the car seats. He stands, waving a hand towards his great accomplishment.

“You did excellent, Marco Polo,” Khutulun says, “Let’s go home, shall we?”

Kokachin glances at Byamba, grinning to herself when she sees his eyes are on his family. Kokachin goes to get her bag, adding, “Let’s.”

Byamba takes the heaviest suitcase and Balal's carrier. He is reaching for the discharge papers when he sees it. He grabs the birth certificates for his twins and calls after Marco, who is already in the hallway, “Polo, why is your name listed as the father of my children?”

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.

“That’s my father,” Atlani says, her hands on her hips. She pulls on Balal's foot, “Get out of his lap. That’s mine.”

“Be nice, Altani,” Marco says.

Balal looks at her, a child half his size, and shrugs. He slides out of Marco’s lap so that Altani may sit there. He goes to see what his sister is doing in the yard before them. Marco watches them, huddled by the trellis where Byamba and Khutulun had married two years prior, their hands busy with something in the grass.

It was a nice day today. He saw the others off to work, Khutulun and Byamba to the company they had founded together and Kokachin to the human right’s firm she currently worked for, and then taken the children to the park. They had not had a nap, he thinks, so perhaps they will go to sleep easily and he will have time to finish his latest chapter. His publisher is committed to a summer release and he does not want to disappoint them.

Kavya and Balal race towards Marco with their prize: a fat, slimy bullfrog.

“Just like the story uncle,” Kavya says. She turns the frog in her hands and kisses it. Before Marco can stop her, she has held it out and Balal has kissed it too. Then she begins to move towards Marco with the massive amphibian, her intention clear.

“No no no,” Marco says, turning away from the animal, “I already have a princess. My kiss would be wasted on him.”

“Then Altani needs to,” Balal says. Kavya nods shoving the bullfrog into Altani’s face much to the young girl’s disgust.

“Stop!” Atlani squeals. Her hands are still covered in juice from the Popsicle she ate earlier but that does not stop her from bury her fingers in Marco’s hair.

The garage door slams and Kavya and Balal abandon their frog to go and greet their parents. Marco carries Altani in his arms and follows them. By the time he has arrived in the entryway, Khutulun is tossing Kavya in the air, as she always does when she arrives home, and Byamba is kissing Balal's cheek and telling the boy how much he has missed him.

Marco sets Altani down and goes to help Kokachin with her shoes. His wife rolls her eyes at her own struggle but he does not think she cares much. Their family will grow again soon. Khutulun is expecting another boy in February and soon after, Kokachin will give birth to their second daughter.

“They need a bath,” Byamba notes, as he gives Balal to Khutulun and takes Kavya. His daughter kisses him and he pulls away and ask, “Why are your lips sticky?”

“Yes. A bath would be good.” Kokachin says, as Altani grabs her mother’s neck to hug her.

“We were playing outside all day,” Marco says. Kokachin and Khutulun both shoot him looks and he quickly adds, “Of course, that is nothing compared to what you were doing. I made the mess and I will bathe them and put them to bed.”

“I will help,” Byamba adds, nuzzling his daughter’s hair. When their wives are not close, Byamba whispers to Marco, “My mother is coming for dinner. I am sure she will insists she puts the children to bed.”

Marco groans, “Imagine it. We could go to bed when they do. 7:30 and no later.”

“Yes,” Byamba says.

Hopefully there will be time for writing too. Those seem to be the only adventures Marco has time for anymore. Try as he might, he cannot bring himself to mind. It is a good life. He would want no other.


End file.
